When Voldemort Won
by Tabari Avaren
Summary: Rated PG 13 for dark thematic elements, not for sexual content. A dark vision of the future, in which muggleborns and order members are on the run as the Dark Lord finishes his conquest of Wizarding Britain. Unfinished but not to be continued after HBP.
1. Conqueror

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated in any way with J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros, the official Harry Potter series, or any of J.K. Rowling's original characters. This is purely a fan interpretation.

**July 1st, 1999**

"Wormtail!"

The cold, high voice rang out through the sumptuously decorated room, full of arrogance and pride. A small, gray man stepped forward from out of the shadows. He looked somewhat ridiculous, dressed in the long purple velvet that all of The Dark Lord's inner circle – the former Death Eaters – now wore to distinguish themselves. What with his watery eyes and his weak chin, he looked more suited to something drab, like brown or gray.

"Yes, my lord?" the small man, called Wormtail, replied.

"Robe me." It was a chill, curt command – and one that Wormtail, as the de facto manservant of the Dark Lord, was familiar with. He walked forwards hurriedly to a richly engraved bureau, matching the stone antechamber's finery. From the bureau he withdrew a long, red robe. Hesitantly, Wormtail approached his master, who stood, back turned to his servant, staring at the fire. With trembling fingers, the small man unclasped his master's black robes and then quickly covered him again in the long, straight red garment. It was a blood red crimson – and, Wormtail could see when his master turned to face him, one shade deeper than Lord Voldemort's red eyes.

"Today is a very important day, Wormtail." Without a sound, The Dark Lord had strode over to a tall bookcase, placing his hand on one of the shelves.

"Y-yes, my lord."

"Today, I crush the last man on this earth who could oppose me."

"Y-yes, my lord."

"Do not stutter, Wormtail. At least Lucius has the decency to hide his fear when he approaches me."

"Y- I mean, no, I won't, my lord."

"Good..." The Dark Lord had a distracted air as he scanned the old tomes in the shelves before him, reading their gold-embossed titles with great familiarity. Suddenly, his mood changed, and he turned round with a click of his tall boots. "Wormtail, is everything ready? Have you prepared all? I will have your head if one thing is astray –"

"Malfoy and Goyle have sent out the notices to attend, Nott is seeing to the Dementors, Crabbe will bring Him –" Something about the way Wormtail uttered the last word made it obvious it was in capital letters; it bore striking resemblance to the way the fearful had spoken of Lord Voldemort.

The Dark Lord noticed, and was not pleased. "I will crush him, today, Wormtail. He is nothing now – and will be less than nothing soon. All will see! I am Lord Voldemort, and none shall stand in my way."

Wormtail, reasonably afraid given his master's present mood, retreated slightly into the shadows again. He need not have done so, for Lord Voldemort had left, through the great oak door opposite the shelves.

For a moment, The Dark Lord's eyes were blinded by the bright light illuminating the Great Hall of what had been Hogwarts School only a few short months ago. When he had adjusted to the light, he saw, to his pleasure, that Wormtail had been correct – all was in order. Nott stood to his left, on one side of the raised dais; Crabbe to the other. In front of him, filling the lower portion of the hall, were thousands of men, crushed so tightly together that they could barely move.

The hall went silent as the oak door slammed shut. All eyes turned directly to the tall, pale man, whose blood red eyes surveyed the crowd, taking in his total domination.

The Dark Lord of all Britain strode forward to the edge of the dais, where a podium had been erected, a podium that bore more than passing resemblance to a judge's bench. The high-necked red robe rustled softly as the man – or what was left of a man – took his place in the last stronghold that had held out against him.

"Crabbe, bring in the accused." A shiver ran around the hall at the sound of The Dark Lord's voice, a ripple running through the assembled crowd.

The thickset man nodded an affirmative, and exited the hall by a side door. The Dark Lord noted that all eyes followed Crabbe , and allowed himself a small smile at their very visible terror. The hall waited in complete silence for only a few seconds.

The man Crabbe was frogmarching was tall, frail, and very old; he was also familiar to all assembled in the Great Hall of Hogwarts – his former domain. Much of the stature and pride in bearing had gone out of him, but there was still an inner strength in his deep blue eyes that had not yet been beaten down.

The Dark Lord was secretly pleased – had Dumbledore been completely subdued, his revenge would be meaningless.

A lean, graying man stepped forwards, holding a scroll of parchment from which he read, like a medieval crier. "Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, you have been brought here today under charges of treasonous acts towards the Dark Lord, namely, organizing resistance to the Dark Lord in his quest to bring all Britain under his rule, battling the Lord in his battles with the former Ministry, harboring fugitives from the Dark Lord, teaching subject matter at Hogwarts contrary to the Dark Lord, and aiding and abetting the deceased criminal Harry Potter in his struggles against the Dark Lord. How do you plead?"

Dumbledore turned not towards the bailiff of this mock-trial, but to his red-robed judge and jury. "Why bother with the formalities, Tom?" he asked, his voice weak but steady.

Lord Voldemort looked his beaten nemesis in the eyes, and said, softly, "The people must see you are beaten... Albus." More loudly, to the rest of the hall, he said, "See how I have conquered you, Dumbledore! I stand in your school, where you have reigned for fifty years – and I am greater yet!"

"They will see only a tyrant and madman, Tom."

"And they see nothing but defeat when they look at you!" Lord Voldemort's eyes flashed dangerously, the crazy red light in them becoming brighter with his exultant fury.

Albus Dumbledore continued to look straight into the Dark Lord's eyes, not showing any sign of fear.

"Albus Dumbledore, I find you guilty of all crimes!" he shrieked, his voice rising to a fever pitch.

Almost gently, the greatest wizard to live for a hundred years said, "I do not fear death, Tom."

And finally Lord Voldemort smiled, his face suffused with unholy delight. "Ah, but I am not going to kill you, Albus. That is too good." He turned away for a moment, and barked at Nott, "Bring them in."

A shadow of fear appeared on Dumbledore's face for an instant, a moment of doubt – the assembled crowd turned en masse towards the doorway, every breath suspended for a moment, terrified, waiting. The Dark Lord's cruel red eyes gazed unseeing at the doorway, his thoughts on a different plane.

Albus Dumbledore did not blanch when the Dementors entered the Great Hall; he did not weep, or beg for mercy; but he betrayed himself with a quiver of the hand, a white knuckle grasping the edges of his frayed robe.

"And you see, Dumbledore," the Dark Lord said, "today I destroy you utterly." He smiled, slightly, a parody of good humor, his lip lifting slightly – and then decried, his voice rising in an exhortation of malicious glee – "I find you guilty, Albus Dumbledore, and I sentence you to punishment by the Dementor's Kiss."

The Wizarding World – or its male representatives – watched aghast as their leader, their staunch defender through troubled times, was brought to his knees, watched as three tall specters surrounded him, their rotting hands outstretched, watched as his soul was swallowed into the black abyss from which none returned – watched as a lifeless shell fell to the ground, the whites of the eyes showing but naught else. Watched as Nott lifted the frail form, and carried it from the hall.

Watched as the Dark Lord to reign for a thousand years swept out of the room, his robe red as the blood he had no need to shed.


	2. Safehouse

Thank you to all reviewers. I make an effort to reciprocate those who read and review, and I've enjoyed reading Little Tigger and Duj's stories.

**July 5th, 1999**

Harry was dead.

Hermione Granger sat on the sagging mattress of a small twin bed, whose brass bedstead gleamed faintly in the dimly lit room. It had a dingy feel, all in sepia tones, with the hideous crocheted brown throw on the bed, the yellow-tinged doilies on the nightstand, and the stained lace curtains around the sole, small window.

Harry was dead.

For the first time, the reality of his death struck her. The first few days had been too hectic, to hurried to pause for grief; she had been numb in those frantic hours. Rushing to her parents' house, telling them to flee with her little sister while they still had time. Kissing them goodbye for the last time before fleeing herself. Always running, hiding, apparating where non-apparation charms had not been constructed. Always on the move. There hadn't been a moment's calm –

But now, here she was, in this still and silent house. Alone. And Harry was dead.

Harry had been struck by a beam of green light, his face a mask of anger and pain, his eyes still on Ron's limp form, his mouth still open in that last grief-stricken cry. And then he had fallen, his green eyes dimming.

They had all fled. There had been no time to remain to help the wounded, or to bring the bodies of the dead; the Dark Lord had come upon them as a wolf among lambs, and slaughtered them too quickly to resist. Their great leaders had fallen.

Harry was dead.

A wave of guilt washed over Hermione, so intense she could hardly bear it. All she could think of was Harry, when Ron – Ron, who had loved her so well, who had given his life to save hers – had lain with equally blank eyes, still on the grassy slopes of the citadel. Ron had loved her. He had loved her, all of her, had wanted to be with her, to marry her – she had worn the ring on her finger for three days – and yet all she could think of was Harry.

The bile rose in her throat, but she swallowed it down, the acrid taste of her own vomit lingering along with the guilt.

Always, always she had thought first of Harry. Ron had been like a brother to her during their school years; she had always relied on him, always thought of him as a steady constant in her life. Always dependable for his short fuse and his long nose, for his bickering and mocking so like a brother she'd never had. Her brother, Ron. You don't have to worry about a brother's affection; he's always there.

But Harry – he'd changed so much during those last few years, and she with him; Harry became the grim commander and the grieving youth, and both at the same time, while she the grave and courageous symbol of the Muggleborns, their hope and rallying cry through the fierce battles for their freedoms. But Ron had stayed the same, more or less – always trying to divert them from the war that was slowly sapping their youths. Always trying to tell her how much he cared underneath the bluster and badinage.

Harry had never loved her. He had seen her as a good friend, but it was Ron who was his staunchest ally. She was as a sister to him – and Ron as a brother to her. And how could she break the heart of her brother-friend, who loved her so dearly, when she loved him, too? How could she kill him, turn friend on friend, by rejecting him for one who could not, would not love her back?

And now, Harry was dead.

Ron was dead.

Her hands trembling, she looked at the small ring on her finger, with the dark blue sapphire – too dark to be a good cut – set on the fine gold band.

"FUUCK!" she screamed, grabbing the candlestick from off of the nightstand and hurling it with all her force at the mirror on her bedroom door.

The glass shattered, exploding in a million pieces and scattering to the floor. Short, angry sobs punctuated her movements as she staggered over to the door, trying to brush her long, frizzy brown hair away from her freckled nose. The tiny shards of glass lay on the ground, a circular pattern from the impact upon the still-hanging mirror.

Bad luck. Seven years of bad luck, when you broke a mirror. For seven years, she'd had friends, happiness, success in studies, admirers from students and teachers alike – a future marriage to one of her closest friends. Seven years of good luck. And now, from some fickle, unkind God, seven cursed years in return.

She collapsed, falling to her knees, crying heavily. It was all too much. Too much.

Her world had shattered like the mirror, splintered into a thousand disconnected, unmanageable pieces. She tried to pick up some of the shards, but she cut herself on an edge, a small drop of blood beading on the tip of her forefinger. She watched it with strange fascination, as the dark red liquid pooled on her finger and slowly rolled down across the pink flesh.

Hiccupping, gasping for breath, wiped the blood on the corner of her robe, now so dirty and frayed it hardly mattered what she put on it.

The doorknob screeched, the rusty metal protesting as it was turned, and Hermione tried to get to her feet, moving out of the way of the dark wood door.

A flicker of concern – more than a flicker – showed in a pair of black eyes, set against a sallow, drawn face. Wordlessly, Professor Snape – not a Professor any more, not by any means – stooped and lifted his former pupil to her feet. She could barely stand, her knees sagging, and she collapsed against his chest, her weakened sobs renewing to full strength.

For the first time in his life, Severus held a woman as she cried all her pain and sorrow at the world, and for the first time in her life, Hermione saw the potions master as a human being.

"_There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,  
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;  
  
And frogs in the pools singing at night,  
And wild plum-trees in tremulous white;  
  
Robins will wear their feathery fire  
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;  
  
And not one will know of the war, not one  
Will care at last when it done.  
  
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree  
If mankind perished utterly;  
  
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,  
Would scarcely know that we were gone._"

Hermione's sobs lessened slightly as she listened to the recitation. She couldn't help herself, too many years of schoolgirl life kicking in. "Teasdale. There Will Come Soft Rains."

Snape nodded, steadying her as she pulled away from him slightly.

"Would scarcely know that we were gone..." Hermione echoed, her face haggard. She did not look like a girl of seventeen, to turn eighteen before the year was out. The lines on her face had deepened, and her cheeks had hollowed, the bones in her face sticking out more clearly. Her brown eyes looked old.

Snape thought she looked like a war widow, the sort of picture you see of women standing by their burnt-out homes, screaming invectives at God above in some foreign tongue – so far away, so alien. Couldn't ever happen here.

"He's dead, Profess –"

"I know. I know."

No love ever had been lost between the two men, so different, so incomprehensible to each other. And yet, holding this slip of a girl as she wept, Severus Snape couldn't help wish that it had somehow, some way, been otherwise.


	3. Fugitive

A/N: Thank you for all reviewers so far. Your comments are always greatly appreciated.

* * *

**June 29, 1998 – four days after the last battle**

Vernon Dursley's large, beefy hand shook slightly as he read the ragged bit of parchment that had come along with an exhausted eagle owl, interrupting his breakfast crumpet.

It was odd – Vernon had hated his nephew, and had never hid his dislike; on more than one occasion, he had wished aloud that Harry had been killed along with his parents, and saved him the trouble of raising the boy, so unlike his own son.

And now, Harry Potter was dead, killed by the same man that had brutally murdered his sister-in-law and her husband sixteen years ago. To his surprise, there was no elation at the news. Instead, there was fear. He reread the letter, slowly.

_V. and P. Dursley – _

_I am writing to you as of three o'clock p.m. on the 28th of June. It is with great sorrow that I must inform you that your nephew, Harry James Potter, was killed three days earlier. It fell upon me to write this letter to you, as during the confusion in the wake of his death there was no one else to write it._

_Sir and Madam, your nephew was murdered by the Dark Lord, who takes the name Lord Voldemort. It was this same dark wizard who murdered Lily and James Potter, your nephew's mother and father, and attempted to kill Harry on Halloween 1981. _

_It is very difficult to express this suitably, but your nephew's death had many consequences. In the week prior to your nephew's birth, a prophecy was made concerning him. To be short, he was the only wizard capable of defeating the Dark Lord. Whether another with the power to defeat Lord Voldemort will be born cannot be foreseen at this moment. _

_The Dark Lord's victory over Harry Potter will have far-reaching consequences, and not only for wizardkind; he is one of a number of murderous wizards who believe that Muggles, such as yourselves, are subhumans undeserving of equal treatment by wizards. He is all-powerful, and he will persecute the Muggles of Britain unmercifully. You and your family are in grave danger not only because of your status as Muggles, but because of your relation to Harry Potter, who for the past sixteen years had been an especially difficult opponent to the Dark Lord._

_I urge you to flee the country, immediately, and take refuge in a more remote part of the world. While I cannot guarantee your safety anywhere, the sooner you are out of Britain, the better. While the Dark Lord is currently preoccupied with mopping up the resistance – of which I am part – he will soon turn his mind to other matters. _

_If you need assistance, please send the owl – he answers to Brutus – with the message to find Moony. He will know where to go. Unfortunately, I cannot give more details for fear of interception._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_R. Lupin_

"P-Petunia," he gasped, as the full impact of the words hit him. His wife, who had been watching the muggle news in the other room, turned around, and spotted the owl. Scowling, she stood, ready to shoo him off her spotless table.

"Petunia, look at this letter," he said, his voice hoarse.

The tall peered over her husband's shoulder, her narrowed eyes skimming the hastily-scrawled words. Her mouth slowly opened, forming a horrified 'O' as she, too, realized the doom that had come upon them.

"Vernon!" she exclaimed in her high, horsey voice. "Oh, Vernon! What are we to do?" Petunia Dursley stared at the ragged parchment, remembering her own first reactions on finding the only remaining blood relative – aside from her son – left to her, along with a letter on paper very similar to the one before her. She had been horrified then – though she'd refused to admit it – that her sister had died; Lily, after all, had been her sister. She had hated Lily, been jealous of Lily, yes – but still, Lily had been her sister, and her only family left after Mr. and Mrs. Evans had passed away.

And now Harry Potter, daughter of her murdered sister, was dead by the same hand that had killed Lily. Petunia's only blood left was in her son, Dudley – and Dudley, along with herself and Vernon, were in grave danger from this dark wizard.

"W-we've got to leave, Vernon," Petunia said, paling. "We've got to go, now!"

"But – but what about Grunnings? What about our mortgage? We can't just leave – not now!" Vernon's protests were weak, for he, too, knew that there was no way they could remain safely in Britain.

Tight lipped, Petunia said, "I don't think Marge will be in any danger. We must simply say that one of us has fallen sick, and we have to go away for our health. Doctor's orders. And – surely we will be able to return again. Surely. This Voldemort was defeated before. Maybe – maybe he will be again."

Vernon Dursley had the nagging feeling that Petunia was deceiving herself, but it was a happy deception, and he joined in. "Yes. Yes, surely he will be defeated again. And – then we can come back. Yes. Well, I suppose I'd better phone Mr. Jennings down at the firm, and notify Marge, and our solicitor…"

"Yes, you probably better had. I'll pack."

"Pack?" Vernon said, blankly.

"Yes, pack! That letter said it was urgent, didn't it? Or do you want to stay here until the blasted wizard comes and curses us into oblivion?"

Vernon was shocked. His wife, as far as he knew, had not used the words "wizard" and "curse" in the same breath since finding his ruddy nephew – oh, but he should not speak ill of the dead – on the doorstep. This shock cowed him momentarily. "Yes, yes. You're right, Petunia, quite right."

In all the kerfuffle, no one had noticed that the owl, Brutus, had keeled over on his side. As Petunia moved to go upstairs to start getting their things, she brushed against the prone bird, and gave a muffled cry.

"Oh! Vernon, the bird! It needs water, probably – and food. We have to send it back, don't we? To this Lupin – whoever he is."

"Lupin?" Vernon Dursley echoed, his memory stirring. "I think I've met him before … one of those freaks that escorted the boy home after his fifth year."

"Didn't he offer his help? Well, we'd better write back to him, hadn't we? We need all the help we can get, getting out of the country on short order!"

"Now, Petunia, I don't think we need help from their kind – we can manage on our own, we always have –"

"Don't be an idiot, Vernon!" Petunia cut in. "We're in danger of being killed by a dark wizard because of my nephew, who is now dead, and you're refusing help? You feed that owl up while I go pack, and when he's fine, I'm writing a letter asking for help!"

The sound that came out of Mr. Dursley's mouth as his wife swept out of the room could only be described as a whimper.

* * *

The Eagle Owl had recovered to some extent when Petunia came downstairs, clutching three large suitcases full of clothes and other small necessities.. She dropped them by the kitchen door and walked over to the owl, sniffing in distaste at the feathers and waste already covering her kitchen table. "Damn birds," she said, before grabbing a ballpoint pen and a sheet of paper. 

Petunia Dursley then commenced to write the most unusual letter of her life, in a graceful, loopy handwriting very unlike her usually barbed tongue.

R. Lupin – 

_Received your letter as of 29 June. Husband, son, and self plan to flee country immediately. Will go to Pretoria, South Africa, to husband's brother. _

_As Lily Potter's sister, I understand that there are certain spells that could protect my family. You may not have been aware, but I sheltered my nephew fully aware of the danger via A. Dumbledore. In return for our protection Dumbledore promised protection in turn. I call on you to give aid where Dumbledore would have. I understand he is of some importance to my nephew's friends and supporters._

_We will be in London Gatwick Airport, South Terminal, at exactly 6:00 p.m. prior our departure. I trust you will contact us with information pertaining to our situation before that time._

_Yours,_

_P. Dursley_

Petunia then folded the letter up neatly, placed it in an envelope, and with a bit of twine tied it to the eagle owl's leg. It stared at her stupidly, and she stared at it, wondering momentarily how one could expect an owl to understand _anything, _before she said, in a low, hoarse voice, "Brutus, find Moony."

The owl's head swiveled around disconcertingly at the sound of her voice, and then, with four massive wingbeats, sailed up and out of her kitchen window.

* * *

At 6:30 p.m. on a sultry June evening – the moon a slender crescent against the summer sky – R.J. Lupin arrived at Number 4 Privet Drive. Those looking out of their windows on that fine evening might have seen him withdraw a thin wand, eleven inches, and wave it in an intricate pattern while muttering under his breath. They would likely have concluded him a dangerous hobo and called the police had that same R.J. Lupin not placed a temporary invisibility charm over himself before arriving at Number 4. 

He was busy in his spellwork for almost an hour, for it was complicated, and parts of it were almost beyond his powers as a wizard. As the sky began to fade from periwinkle to lavender, Remus Lupin withdrew the final, binding material: two wands, crossed, of yew and holly, tied together with three hairs peculiar to the house's former occupants. Murmuring the final incantation, the wearied wizard carried the cross over to the door of Number 4 Privet Drive, pressing it against the wood, where it hung, visible for only a second, before it faded into the door's spotless maroon paint.

R.J. Lupin stepped back, and surveyed his work. The house appeared as normal, but he was wizard enough to feel the power that radiated from the house. He had bought the Dursleys two weeks' worth of protection, two weeks where no one would think to wonder why the law-abiding, perfectly normal Mr. and Mrs. Dursley were not at their usual residence.

He sighed, and stooped to pick up his briefcase.

It saved his life.

A jet of green light flew over the spot where his back had been instant ago, singing the gray-brown hair on the top of his head. The moment between the first curse and the second beam of emerald light gave Remus Lupin enough time to grab his wand and dive behind Petunia Dursley's admirable hydrangea bushes. Swearing under his breath, the fugitive wizard dared a look over the top of the greenery.

Malfoy. Malfoy and Dolohov. And – to Lupin's horror – Bellatrix Lestrange, apparating next to her two male companions with a deafening crack.

Even Lupin's anti-muggle wards could do nothing to prevent Number 3, Number 2, and Number 1 all sticking their heads out of their windows to have a look, and nothing within his power could prevent them from being killed – unless…

McGonagall and the others would have a better chance than unarmed, defenseless muggles.

He had to.

He was dead anyway.

"I will surrender myself peacefully" – here his voice caught – "if you spare the muggles."

Bellatrix scowled, but Malfoy – ever the pragmatist – hushed her. "There will be other nights, Bellatrix. The Dark Lord will provide."


End file.
